


Let It Be Christmas

by AdelaFromJaneEyre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fairy lights and gingerbread, Greg is a sweetheart, M/M, Mycroft and Greg are parents, Mycroft loves his family, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Mystrade Holiday 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaFromJaneEyre/pseuds/AdelaFromJaneEyre
Summary: The British Government (aka, Mycroft Holmes) finds himself busier than ever as December approaches. Fortunately, he has a sweet husband and four wonderful children willing to pull out all the stops to surprise him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! I hope this little fic sets your holiday season off right. Enjoy!

Mycroft wasn’t sure what he expected to find as he arrived at home on the evening of December 1, but the sight of their Hertfordshire cottage done up in fairy lights certainly wasn’t it. White bulbs blinked slowly in the gray twilight, hanging like icicles off the eaves of house. A multicolored light-up wreath had been placed on the front door, and a plastic manger scene, lacking only the baby Jesus, had been set up in the garden.

Mycroft closed the car door with a snap and made his way up the walkway, pausing to admire the pretty sight. He didn’t even know they had a Nativity scene, let alone one intended for lawn decoration. The paint chipping off of Mary’s face and the slightly dented donkey hinted at their age and time spent in the back of an attic. It was rather amusing, he thought, Mary and Joseph and several shepherds and animals all gathered around an empty manger. He wondered briefly where the baby was.

He continued up the front steps and through the door and was greeted by a babble of excited chatter and the faint smell of gingerbread, both emanating from the kitchen. The Christmas explosion had reached the inside of the house, too. Plug-in candles glowed on every windowsill, and a garland of holly wound its way up the bannister. The double doors to the library were closed and tied with a red bow, so he continued into the lounge. He grinned as he found the drybar covered in fake snow and all the pillows on the couch replaced with novelty throws that read “Joy” and “Peace” and “Merry.” The decorative bowl on the coffee table, which usually held fruit, was now home to a pile of red and gold ornaments.

“Greg,” he called, “what on earth have you done to the house?”

The noise in the kitchen picked up a notch, and a voice shouted, “Daddy’s home!”

Mycroft set his briefcase on the coffee table, minding the bowl, as his husband and two of their children trooped into the lounge. Greg led the pack, grinning from ear to ear.

“I didn’t hear you come in, love.” He leaned in for a kiss and then gestured to the room. “It looks great, doesn’t it? The kids did a fantastic job. Just wait till you see the kitchen.” Greg took Mycroft’s coat from his shoulders as he crouched to greet the children.

“You mean to tell me there’s more?” Mycroft asked. He opened his arms and their 8 year old twins nuzzled closer.

“Course there is,” Oliver answered as he hugged him. He was all brown curls and soft eyes, the very picture of Greg, even down to the way he spoke. “Do you like it, Daddy?”

“Yes, darling.” Mycroft kissed his head. “Which part did you help with?”

“Ummm….” Oliver thought for a moment. “I did the snow on the bookshelves and I helped Angie with the manger scene and Papa let me plug in the wreath, too.”

Mycroft smiled. “You sound like you were a very good helper.” He turned to Charlie, tucked under his other arm. Where Oliver was Greg’s clone, Charlie was almost Mycroft’s. He had the reddish hair and the heart shaped face, but instead of Mycroft’s blue grey eyes, Charlie had big brown eyes. Realistically, Mycroft knew they came from the egg donor, but he liked to imagine they’d been inherited from Greg. “What about you, Charles? What did you do?”

“Papa let me put the ornaments in the bowl, but I had to be very careful cause they’re breakable.” His chest puffed up in pride. “I didn’t break any of them, Daddy! And I put the holly on the stairs and made the snowflakes in the kitchen!”

“The snowflakes in the kitchen?” Mycroft had no idea what he was talking about.

Charlie nodded. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Mycroft stood up and allowed himself to be led into the kitchen where all of the cabinets, high and low, had been covered with dozens of snowflakes cut out of white computer paper. A select few had even been suspended, via yarn and sellotape, from the ceiling. He had never seen anything so tacky or beautiful in all his life.

Charlie tugged on his hand. “What do you think, Daddy?”

“It looks like a winter wonderland!”

Oliver jumped on his other side. “I made them, too! Charlie didn’t do everything.”

“I did most of it, though!”

Mycroft ruffled their hair, ending their disagreement and calming them. “You both did a marvelous job. It looks splendid in here.” He looked to the stove, where their oldest son, Jamie, was helping Greg make dinner.

“Hello, Jameson,” he said, wading through the twins’ attempts to climb on him. He opened his arms for a hug.

Jamie glanced up from the stove, hesitating, face full of pubescent insecurity, before taking a step closer and allowing himself to be held for a moment. “Hullo, Dad.” As he stepped back, under the pretense of needing to stir the pasta, Mycroft noticed that a few dark hairs had appeared among the spots of acne on his face. Had really been so long since they’d brought him home as a baby?

“Were you also roped into participating in this festive detonation?” he asked.

Jamie nodded, tapping the spoon on the side of the pot. “Yeah. I did the lights.”

Mycroft glanced from Greg to Jamie. “You don’t mean the lights out front.” His voice was half question, half warning.

“I did all of the ones outside, and the candles inside. I helped Angie with them so she wouldn’t shock herself.”

Mycroft looked at Greg. “Gregory, he’s only thirteen. He’s far too young to be climbing onto the roof to hang a few fairy lights.”

Greg smiled ruefully. “There was no roof-climbin’, it was all on a ladder. Come on, love, look at him.” He clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “He’s alright. And he’s taller’n either of us now, so he’s the best one for the job.”

Mycroft folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And what if he’d fallen off the ladder?”

Greg shrugged. “I’d have taken him to hospital if he needed it, but he didn’t. Really, he did a great job. Very safe.” He smiled, but the smile faded as he studied the look on Mycroft’s face--concerned and entirely unconvinced. He put down his spoon and took Mycroft by the hand, leading him back into the lounge, away from the children. He pulled him in for a hug. “It’s alright, love,” he murmured, running a hand down his back. “I don’t think you’re really angry. You just don’t wanna believe he’s growin’ up so fast.”

Mycroft relented, relaxing into Greg’s touch. Greg was right, after all; he didn’t want to believe Jamie was growing up. It seemed like just yesterday he was posing for pictures with Father Christmas at the mall, and today he was hanging lights on the house, already too old to still think Father Christmas was real. Even at thirteen, he’d lost some of that joy, the love of life that was a hallmark of childhood. When had thirteen started to seem so grown up? 

Greg kissed Mycroft’s hair. “S’okay. He’s got a long way to go yet.”

Mycroft sighed, burying his face in the crook where Greg’s shoulder met his neck. “I know. But he has facial hair now, and he’s uncomfortable with physical contact…” he trailed off. He lifted his head, looking Greg in the eye. “Our first baby isn’t so much of a baby anymore.”

Greg smiled, a little sadly. He ran a hand through Mycroft’s hair. “I know, love. That tends to happen with babies.” His eyes brightened. “But that’s what we had all the rest for, innit? And we’ve still got one who’s basically a baby.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I suppose we do.” He rested his forehead against Greg’s. “Where is she? I haven’t seen her yet.”

Greg’s eyes fluttered shut. “Think she’s upstairs.”

They lingered in the moment, breathing together in the soft glow of the candles, a center of calm in the midst of the storm that was life with four children. If anyone had told Mycroft fifteen years ago that he and his new husband would be standing where they were in this moment, he’d have thought they were insane. He couldn’t have imagined all the challenges and blessings up ahead. Their foster baby became an adopted baby. Their surrogate found out at 6 weeks that not one but two embryos had implanted successfully. Then there was the move out to Hertfordshire, Greg taking a job at the constabulary, and, a few years later, they adopted a baby girl. Life had surprised them, but right in this moment--Greg’s arms around him, the house a mess of children’s decorations, overexcited twins wrestling in the kitchen--Mycroft wouldn’t change a thing.

With a soft kiss on his husband’s lips, he stepped from Greg’s embrace and made his way back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway. “You did a tremendous job with the lights, Jameson. And I’m very glad you’re safe.”

His son shrugged off the compliment, but Mycroft saw the hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he turned away.

He passed back through the lounge, heading for the stairs. He’d just reached the bottom when a small figure appeared at the top and began making her way down. Mycroft’s heart squeezed. Her steps were cautious, as both arms were wrapped around the missing baby Jesus, swaddled in a dishtowel. Most of her wild, brown hair had come loose from its ponytail, and her red corduroy skirt was twisted sideways. She moved slowly down the stairs, only looking up when she reached the landing in the middle. Her eyes lit on Mycroft, and her chubby cheeks dimpled with a smile.

“Daddy!” she squealed.

Her proper name was Evangeline, but she was the only one of Mycroft’s children that he called by a nickname. “Hello, Angel.”

He ascended the rest of the stairs as she opened one arm for a hug (the other one still clutching Jesus). He lifted her up, settling her on his hip as she placed her head on his shoulder. He ran a hand over her curls, gently removing the hair tie and combing her strawberry-scented locks away from her face. She turned up to look at him, blue eyes peaceful. Unlike most other little girls, she loved having her hair brushed and braided and played with.

Mycroft smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “How was your day, sweet?”

“Good!”

“That’s good to hear.” He sat on the stairs, placing her in his lap. She snuggled closer, wrapping her free arm around his chest. “What did you do today?”

“Papa put up Kissmiss for you so you wouldn’t be sad, and he said we could help, so he let me put out the people and the lights in the windows for you, Daddy.”

Mycroft smiled. She still had trouble with Rs. “Papa put up Christmas for me?” he asked.

Evangeline nodded. “Yes, he didn’t want you to feel sad.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why did he think I’d be sad?”

“B’cause you had to go to work even though it’s Saturday.” She looked up at him. “Did it work, Daddy? Are you not sad?”

His heart squeezed again. Greg could be so thoughtful and loving it hurt. And, once again, he was right; the prime minister’s office was the last place Mycroft wanted to spend a Saturday. “I’m not sad at all, sweetheart. You and Papa did a wonderful job.” He unwrapped a corner of the dishtowel. “Although I am curious, what is baby Jesus doing inside? Shouldn’t he be in the manger?”

Evangeline shook her head, curls flying with her vigor. “No. He isn’t born ‘til Kissmiss Day, so Papa said I could have him ‘til then.”

“Ahh, I understand.” He wrapped the towel back around the doll. “Well, we’d best keep him warm then.”

She cradled the figure closer to her chest. “Yes, we don’t want him to be cold.” She looked up at Mycroft, blue eyes sparkling. “Did you see the library?”

He shook his head. “No. Would you like to show me?”

She nodded, springing off his lap and holding out a hand. Mycroft took her hand and let her lead him back downstairs. They hadn’t even made it to the bottom before Greg intercepted them.

“Dinner is ready!” He announced.

Evangeline bounced impatiently. “Papa, I’m showing Daddy the library.”

Greg grinned at her. “You know that’s a surprise. C’mon, let’s eat first and we can show him after, alright?” He scooped her into his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek before setting her on the floor. “Go on, go put Jesus on the couch and grab your cup for dinner.” She scampered off as Greg looked up at Mycroft. “Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

Mycroft smiled as he descended the rest of the stairs. “I didn’t even know we owned a nativity, seeing as we don’t attend church.”

Greg grinned. “We don’t. Borrowed it from my mum so you could have the full effect when you got home today.” He placed a hand on Mycroft’s lower back as he came level with him. “But I didn’t expect Angel to be so attached to Jesus.” He made a face. “Another sentence I’d never thought I’d say.”

Mycroft laid his hand on Greg’s chest. “She told me why you did all this; that you ‘didn’t want me to be sad,’ in her phrasing.” He kissed him, sweet and slow. “Thank you.”

“Of course, love,” Greg murmured. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Just one question,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“What have you done to the library?”

Greg stepped away, grinning wickedly. “You’ll see later. Let’s go have dinner first.”

“No, Greg, really.”

“Really, Mycroft. I’m not ruinin’ the surprise.” He held out a hand. “Come on, then. The kids are waitin’. The library’ll still be there after.”

Mycroft studied his brown eyes and overeager smile. There was no malice or ill-will in that expression. He still wanted to satisfy his curiosity, but for now, he took his husband’s hand, resigned to Greg’s plan. He glanced over his shoulder at the red ribbon on the doors as they walked to the dining room, wondering what could be behind them. For now, he had no choice but to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner passed in a blur--even when they were relaxing, the kids were constantly in motion. Angie’s cup tipped over, spilling milk all over the tablecloth. While mopping up the mess, Greg and Mycroft were distracted long enough that Oliver threw a wad of wet napkins at Jamie. Jamie, quite patiently, scooped up the napkins, wrapped Oliver in a headlock, and rubbed the milky mess into his curls. Mycroft wasn’t sure how they did it, but they managed to separate the boys, reset the tablecloth, refill Angie’s cup, and send Oliver to rinse his hair, all in a matter of minutes. 

The pot of fettuccine alfredo didn’t stand a chance against four hungry kids, and after second helpings had been served, a few traces of sauce were all that remained in the pan. Then the table was cleared, dishes rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, and Greg gathered the kids in front of the library doors. Mycroft, filling the pasta pot with soap and hot water, could just hear some excited whispering over the noise of the tap. Jamie entered the kitchen a moment later, removed something from the oven, and hunched his body around it as he snuck out of the room. Charlie was quick on his heels, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and a serrated knife from the drawer. Mycroft pretended not to see them, choosing instead to roll up his sleeves and load the silverware at the bottom of the sink into the dishwasher.

As he turned off the faucet and dried his hands, Angie scampered into the room. She extended a hand. “Come with me, Daddy.” 

Mycroft smiled and placed the towel on the counter. “Of course, Angel.” He took her hand, and she bounced alongside him as they made their way to the library. Greg and Oliver were waiting for them.

“Are you ready?” Greg asked, grinning. 

Mycroft nodded, and Angie jumped with excitement. “Yes, I believe we are.” 

With a dramatic flourish, Greg removed the ribbon from the doors, and Oliver pulled them open. Inside, the library had been transformed. A Christmas tree sat in the corner, glowing with fairy lights. Their stockings hung from the mantle over the fireplace, arranged oldest to youngest, and a fire crackled below them. Two nutcrackers stood guard on the corners of Mycroft’s desk. At the center of his desk was a plate of gingerbread, which Jamie and Charlie had just removed from the loaf pan and sliced onto the plate. 

Mycroft’s heart was full to bursting as he surveyed the room. He should have known that Greg had extra tricks up his sleeve. He turned and kissed his husband. “It’s beautiful in here.” 

Greg smiled. “I’m glad you like it, but wait--” he beckoned to Jamie--“there’s more.” 

Jamie bent and slid a blue plastic storage box out from underneath Mycroft’s desk.  _ Christmas Ornaments _ was scrawled in Greg’s writing along the side. Angie released Mycroft’s hand and rushed forward as Charlie removed the lid. She lifted the cover of one of the four shoeboxes inside. An assortment of ornaments greeted her. 

“Look, Daddy! It’s for the Kissmiss tree!” 

“I know, Angel,” Mycroft stepped forward. “Why don’t you give me the box, and Papa can help you put one on the tree?” He sat cross-legged on the floor as she placed the shoebox in his hands. “Which one would you like to put on first?” he asked. 

She picked up a bear wearing a red jumper and ran to Greg, who scooped her up. 

“What’s it say?” she asked. 

Greg took the ornament, turning it around. “It says, ‘Father-to-Be.’ Your dad gave me that while we were adoptin’ Jamie.” He smiled. “Course, Jamie was already livin’ with us, as foster parents, but we’d only just started the process to become his real dads.” He gave the ornament back to her. “Now, where do you want to put it, treacle?” 

Mycroft smiled as he watched them, Greg lifting her up to the branch she’d selected. “It looks lovely, Angel.” He turned his attention to Oliver and Charlie, who were digging through the box on his lap. Charlie pulled out a garland made of dry macaroni and painted gold. 

“Who made this?” he asked.

“I believe Angel did, at her nursery school last year,” Mycroft answered. Charlie handed the garland up to Angie, still in Greg’s arms, and she placed it on the tree. 

Mycroft sifted through the box, removing a ceramic half moon. Script engraved at the bottom read,  _ Baby’s First Christmas, 2005 _ . “This one is yours, Jameson.” He handed it to his son. 

“Are any of these mine, Daddy?” Charlie asked, looking up. 

“Of course, quite a few of them,”Mycroft assured him. He picked up a wooden sled painted with a snowman.  _ Charles, 2012 _ was written in cursive on the back. “Here’s one for you.” Two matching ones were tucked below it, one bearing Oliver’s name and one Jamie’s. Mycroft handed each to its owner. 

Angie trotted over. “Do I have a sled, too, Daddy?” 

“I’m afraid not, Angel. You weren’t born yet. But do you know what you have that none of the boys have?” 

She shook her head, excited. Mycroft smiled. “Before you were part of our family, we couldn’t tell your brothers about you for a while. They knew we were adopting a baby, but they did not know it was you. When we could finally tell them, it was in December, so while we were decorating the Christmas tree, Papa hid this in the ornament boxes.” Mycroft held up a sparkly pink ball. Silver foam letters spelled out  _ Evangeline.  _

“I remember that,” Jamie said. “Oliver found it, I think. Only he couldn’t read at the time, so I had to read it to him.” 

“What’s it say?” Angie asked. 

Jamie smiled at her. “It’s your name, silly.” He pointed to the letters. “See, it says Evangeline.” 

She looked up at her brother. “Were you excited when you found it?” 

He nodded. “Course! I didn’t know what it meant at first, but after Daddy and Papa told us, we couldn’t wait.” 

She grinned, satisfied, and took the ornament to place it on a low branch, right at her eye-level. 

Oliver pulled another ornament from the box, this one a delicate silver frame suspended from a white ribbon. “Who are these people?” he asked, showing it to Mycroft. 

Mycroft laughed. “You really don’t know?” he asked. Oliver shook his head. “That’s me and Papa, a long time ago. This picture is from our third date.” He pointed. “See, that’s me, and that’s Papa.”

Oliver glanced from Greg to the picture. “Why is Papa’s hair all spiky? He looks funny.” 

Greg grinned. “Hey, now, that was the style back then. Your Daddy thought I looked cool.” 

Oliver stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief. Mycroft nodded. “I am afraid he’s right. I thought he was the coolest man I’d ever met.” 

As the boys bent back over the box, searching for more ornaments with their names, Mycroft handed the frame to Greg. Those two twenty-somethings in the photo could never have imagined where they’d end up, but watching Greg loop the ribbon over the highest branch, just under the star, Mycroft knew they were exactly where they were meant to be.

It was more than they’d ever dreamed. And it was better than perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it's January 13th and Christmas is long over, but I really wanted to finish this, and also it was snowing and I finally had the time and the inspiration. So here it is! More than a month late! Hot off my google doc! Completely unedited and unrevised! (I spent a week or more on the first chapter, and wrote chapter two in about five hours. It probably shows). But I really wanted to do it, and I wasn't ready to believe that the festive season is over, so if you're here, thanks for reading and for joining me in my denial! 
> 
> Happy New Year, y'all!


End file.
